


Acadiana Comoedia

by Anonymous



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Banter, But it's not really Dark Will, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Except Hannibal decides to stride to "friends" right away and drags Will along with him, I Didn't Realize I Wrote This In Second Person and Other Homestuck Tales, It's like if William Faulkner was gay people, Louisiana, M/M, Meet-Cute, Murder, Murder Mystery, Nationalism, POV Second Person, Pre-Relationship, Quid Pro Quos, Sometimes settings are just places where the stories happen to take place, Stream of Consciousness, Unreliable Narrator, Will Graham Has Encephalitis, Will Graham Knows, Will Graham is a Mess, and sometimes they warrant their own AO3 tag, cultural enclaves and the nebulous concept of "bastardizing" a culture, this is a case of the latter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:46:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24519409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: There is a quiet, dignified predator stalking through the still night in the shape of a man.(or Will Graham helps someone, gets helped, tampers with evidence, and falls in love, but not necessarily in that order)
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 19
Kudos: 120
Collections: Anon Works





	1. Acadia

Moonlight creeps into the garage through the metal shutters that never close quite right. You look up from the motor you’d been working on and wince as the light pinches your strained eyes. 

You have had the spectacularly bad luck of possessing good intuition; here, it was more of a hindrance than anything else. Louisiana, the murder capital of America. You’d have done fine with a blanket sort of mistrust, but you’re anxious beyond reason, seeing too much in alleys and behind eyes. 

“The water’s not deep,” your father had warned you so many times, in a childhood spent perked on the stern of the boat, watching the still water go against its nature above the motor, glassy stillness into churning froth. “It’s not deep, but it’s dark. I’d be careful; you never know if there’s a gator where you all up and see.” 

You didn’t tell him that you always could see the gators, even when no one else could. Before you’d learned fear, sitting in a little shaded basket while your dad tossed the net and drew it back in like a fiber wave, you see the eyes just above the surface, the small glint among the moss and algae of the bayou. 

And then you walked and talked and knew where the gators and big fish where even when you couldn’t see them, and by then you had learned fear very well. Barely needed to add oil to the gears, your dad would say as you curled over the engine, tinkering with the parts. The sweat on your skin would slick it well enough. 

Winston lifts his head off his paws, looks at you with a question in his brown eyes. You put a finger to your lip, and he sits up, silently, alert like a sentinel on duty. 

When you pull your hand back, you can taste motor oil on your lips. You look down, and wince at the sight of your fingers, slowly dripping onto the garage floor, which had long been stained a dark gray from this sort of habitual occurrence. 

You move them into the moonlight, and for a moment, it looks like something else, a situation less innocent than a late night working on a boat motor, your hands dripping black in the moonlight. 

You grab a rag towel and dry the wetness on your palm, and, fingers still stained sticky dark in the way that a rag couldn’t wash away, crack open the aluminum shutters enough for you to peek through. You know better than to think yourself just paranoid. You are, paranoid, that is. But that doesn’t mean you don’t have reason to be. 

There is a quiet, dignified predator stalking through the still night in the shape of a man. He walks with the sort of dominating assurance that tells you that he’s no mere robber. Against the protest of your commonly-sidelined common sense, you cautiously led the shutter down as far as it will allow, pat Winston in a silent order to stay, and open the back door silently with bated breath. A screwdriver still hangs limply in your other hand. 

By the time you are at the front of the garage, the man is gone. The yawning abyss of the alley stares into you, and it doesn’t take a freak like you to know where he went. 

You look both ways in a yield to ghostly vehicles, and silently dart across the street. As you press your back to the brick wall of the warehouse adjacent to the garage, you come to the realization that you don’t actually have a plan for what to do. You had been so caught up in this interesting and dangerous stranger that the closest thing to a plan you had conceived was to get closer. 

Your flip-phone was back in the garage, and you consider running back to get it, but decide you don’t have the time. Who knows if the alley is this hunter’s final destination? 

You pick up an abandoned metal bar lying near the dilapidated remains of the warehouse, pray to hell that your tetanus vaccinations are recent enough to count, and follow the man into the inky blackness. 

You don’t see him. This, although disconcerting, is unsurprising. The problem is, that you don’t feel him either. You almost want to stop and enjoy the moment, a moment of darkness and peace and quiet in your burning brain. 

Then you are on the ground, and the metal bar hits the pavement with a noise that reverberates and morphs in your skull, your head is a red hot flash, you are sweating, and you don’t know if it’s the sound of the bar or your own moans. 

It subsides slowly, like the bay in a drought, until you’re left slumped on the filthy alley ground, breathing fast and trying to focus through eyes that feel like they’ve been pulled out and popped back in. 

“A strange place to experience a medical emergency.” You hear in the shadows, a cool, accented voice that is the cool cloth on your skin and the chill in your spine. 

The beast crouches in the shadows, approaching you like you are a wary dog. Perhaps you were, in your own way. Alleys. You found Buster in an alley. You hope someone checks on them, that your boss notices you’re gone. You don’t want them to starve. It’s a terrible way to die. There are few good ways, really. 

And then the beast surrounds you, and his eyes are like obsidian in the moonlight. His hair has fallen into his face. You want to sweep it away from his eyes, to feel the breath and fangs on your skin. 

“Luckily for you, I am a very experienced doctor.” There’s a crackle of plastic being removed, and flesh touches fire. Your eyes roll back. The hand is cool, and you think that maybe hell froze over after all. 

You must have mumbled something to this effect, because there’s a questioning sort of noise followed by a hum of realization. 

Your eyes roll forward again, the tide rolls against the beach, the dragonfly creates ripples on the still river water, and the moonlight illuminates the ripples of his transparent plastic suit. Black is trapped in a crevice, the color of motor oil and the viscosity telling you that it isn’t so. You are sure of this. You aren’t sure of most things, not for a while now, but there’s iron in the air and taste and smell haven’t gone yet. This man has the eyes of a beast and the smell of a steel plant and he’s chuckling like you’ve just said something witty even though your mouth is open your tongue is cut and you’re going to catch flies you’re going to yo

“I admit, this is a rather unorthodox interpretation of the Hippocratic oath.” The beast says, and the voice is the lighthouse on the rocks and you are the sailor in the storm. You grab the closest approximation to his hand, take a few tries as you hit your noise, ears, and scalp, feel the chill of his in yours, and you go under the choppy waves. 


	2. Ascension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> black lives matter.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bCgLa25fDHM

You don’t wake more so than become gradually stranded upon the shore of your mind, the hot, pulsing river spitting you out upon the mangled mangrove roots and silt. The water lingers like a promise on your skin, murky and glistening. 

Slowly, in flashes of clarity, the twisting roots twist themselves into baroque curls of acanthus in dark wood, a tribute to a long dead French king. The red-hot sun fades into velvet darkness, the sunspots ordering themselves into understated little rows of geometric flora. 

Skin moist with the memory of the bayou, you find yourself in a dim hotel room, the type with tasteful dust along its old and venerable corners. The type of room for people with museums for homes, collecting bits of the past in a grasp to feel something in the present. People with too much old money and too many old names making up their own, people drowning themselves before they’re born in what came before them. 

There is no dramatic moment of recollection. You might wish there was, because it seems like just the _right_ amount of _wrong_ to know the crazy was external, not something burrowed deep and wrong into the workings of _you._ You might not. Wish, that is. It’s all pretty murky, except for what’s not. 

You were in the garage, and there was the beast of a man stalking through the shadows of a borrowed city. You had seen the monster’s eyes above the water, but the mud stuck around your ankles, and _it’s very easy, Will, to drown in water with bottoms like this, you won’t know the danger until you’re in it._

You had known, and you waded into the depths anyway, because you had just wanted to help. Because there was bound to be some poor creature sinking in the mud, and you couldn’t look into their eyes and let them drown. 

The room is conspicuously empty, and you’re not sure if the rush of blood in your head is the beast’s ache or your own. 

You swallow, and your mouth is dry, your skin is wet, and something heavy sticks in your throat, swallowing the weight of the situation. You don’t know if it grounds you or is a manacle to drag you down. An anchor can steady you, but it can also root you to the bottom, grasping for the sunlight just above. What you need is a paddle, you think, but when have you ever gotten what you fucking need. 

Voice strained from the _something_ weighing down your breath, you speak. 

“I know you’re there.” You clear your throat, wince at the dry pain. The weight shifts, nudging like a dry-swallowed pill. “You’re, um. You’re watching me.” A pause, and because the words are falling now, a slow current dragging your breath downstream, you add: “You haven’t killed me. I don’t know why.” 

There is another weighty silence, and then a door opens, and the predator strides in wearing the skin of a tall, suited man. He smiles with just a hint of teeth, a contortion of thin lips that promises a secret held by two. It strikes you that you think he is handsome, but not quite human. An appealing sculpture of something _other_ , only adjacent to the _idea_ of a man. 

The man sits on an armchair adjacent to the chaise you have emerged to find yourself strewn upon. He crosses his legs, back straight and serene like the portrait of a European monarch. He is wearing a beige paisley suit, with accents in dark green. It, along with the ornate and uncomfortable chair, should look ridiculous. It doesn’t. Those are rules and perceptions made for men, and he is something _other_ than one. 

“Quite frankly,” He begins, and his voice surprisingly soft, accented with the sort of European dignity that comes from a birth name with roman numerals in it. He does not need to be loud to command authority. He has begun to pour you a cup of tea from a pot on a small table between the two of you. You think to tell him that you’re more of a coffee kind of guy, but there’s something immensely fascinating and authoritative in his movements that demands your attention and hushes your protests. He smiles up at you, through a thin dusting of straw-blond hair that has fallen over his eyes. “Neither do I.” 

You’re not sure what to say to that, but the intimate and morbid atmosphere of this predator pouring you tea and speaking to you in a soft voice leads something to slip out in a whisper without consideration, more instinct than action. 

“How does that make you feel?” You whisper, voice rusty from dryness and a horrible sort of awe. 

He hands you a cup of tea, and your fingers brush in the transfer. You feel your blood rush in your veins, like when you were 12 and some dumb kids from a local trailer park had found a sleeping crocodile and crouched close, letting your fingers rest featherlight on the warm scales. 

The tea is good, and you think maybe you're not just a coffee sort of guy after all. ( _You don’t know who you are, and your mind is always open to suggestions.)_ It burns a little going down, but it’s a good hurt. 

“I believe that you already know.” The suited god responds, and it is not _human_ but it is _vulnerable_. These are words with a soft underbelly, words spoken with hope and perhaps the slightest bit of pleading. You’ve never been so close to death. You’ve never felt more powerful. 

And you do know, but you don’t have to say it. Your face is enough. He exhales, barely audible, a shudder in the composure of a magnificent beast. 

He is excited, and you’re never sure about these things, but maybe you are too. 

The whole experience is rather comfortable as far as hostage situations go. Really, the _man_ is such an accommodating host that you’re starting to doubt whether this is a hostage situation at all. If the tea wasn’t warming every vein in your limbs like a gentle touch you think it’d be making you very frustrated, the ambiguity of it all. Life tends to be frustrating, for you. You are a pair of glasses with the wrong prescription; everything is very, very clear except for whatever’s going on half the time. 

The man asks many questions, and you evade them with equal parts bluntness, redirection and not knowing how the hell to answer. 

You try a biscuit made with something called ‘quinoa’. The package proclaims it’s fair-trade status proudly in four different ways and three different languages. 

A snort escapes you upon seeing it, and you half swallow the sound in the process. There is a certain shame that comes with being in his presence, in this grand and expensive hotel room. There is something obscene to your very existence, that comes from being in a wealthy place while poor. 

This is not the man’s feeling, and so it must be yours, but your brain is a terrible machine composed of stolen parts, and so it may only be a ghost. 

You wear so many masks, and even after they fall to the floor, you find that your face has grown a bit to fit the shape of them. 

“I’ll sleep soundly knowing you are an ethical man.” You comment, with a flick of your hand to the package. The lips of the beast quirk, just the devil and you, in on a joke. Whether it’s funny doesn’t really matter, with something this exclusive. 

Your brain is hot, a warm hazy fire burning along your limbs, but your fingers are ice-cold. Whether it’s funny or not doesn’t really matter, when everything is this hazy. 

You can see the fire of yourself in the man’s eyes, two marbles reflecting a portrait of Victor’s creation turned to smoke and char. 

“I sense that your sleep is rarely restful.” He says, as calm as the water before the motor spits and churns its path through. 

This is a dangerous creature in the shape of a man; you cannot tell him the truth. He will not tolerate lies. 

“Like a baby,” you assure him impishly, an answer as murky as your own mind.

This non-answer does not go unnoticed by him, and he tilts his head slightly, indulgent and almost-paternal. 

You realize at once. 

“You said you were a doctor.” You state, just shy of accusatory. 

The burning eyes twinkle fondly, and he smiles in a way that crinkles the corners of his thin eyes. The wrinkles remind you of the arms of a galaxy, and you are the black hole, reflected into existence in his eyes. 

“You’re a fucking psychiatrist, aren’t you?” You mumble, because if you didn’t mumble you would hiss. You rub your temples, and your fingers of ice spread pins and needles along your burning skin. 

The person-suit trembles for a moment, an engine on the verge of it’s capability, before he bursts into a laugh. It is not _undignified_ , but it’s not the twinkling chuckle of high society either, and you do not feel as though you are so seeing the real creature of this man more than you are creating him as you breathe; you are the unintentional Blue Fairy to this creature’s Geppetto, this man is not a man, and you are not a real boy, but he is laughing and you are alive, and it is the strangest and most miraculous thing in a city full of strange, horrible and miraculous things. 

A devilish smirk, and then; “My coital habits are of no relation to my profession, I assure you.” 

It’s not _that_ funny, in of itself, but you laugh harder than you can recall in recent memory. (This isn’t very impressive, since you can’t recall much of anything, at least not many things you are certain are real.) 

The two of you are just another exhibit in New Orleans pictures of oddity; this predator of regal construction, and you, a not-quite-person who repairs boat engines, laughing with all the music of the world. 

There is a knock at the door, and the _thump_ shakes the laughter out of you. 

Your host rises to his feet, brushes a wrinkle from the elbow of his boldly-plaid suit, and strides to the door, person suit perfectly composed. He slips out and shuts it behind him with a soft click. 

There is no murmur of voices at the door; the hotel room is a vacuum, the events outside of it making no ripple in it’s stream. 

There are plenty of reasons for a high-end hotel to invest in sound-proofed walls, but you are fairly certain that your host didn’t rent this suite with the typical sensibilities in mind. 

You could have been waiting for a very long time, and no seconds could have passed at all. He left, and then at some uncertain point, he had returned. 

As he steps closer, you manage to discern a minute crease of concern in his cordial persona. It is what you figure is probably his equivalent to punching a hole in a plaster-wall. He answers the question in the air with a little nod. 

“We have had the pleasure of an unexpected visit-” he says, sitting down with a flourish “-from the New Orleans Police Department.” 

You’re _crazy_ , not _stupid_. 

“Not for anything you did.” You point out; it is stated fact, not a line of questioning. You do not know this monster, but you do _know_ him. He is an exact predator, a beast made of precise angles and perfectly galvanized seams. 

He sighs, endeared towards your brashness and accepting of some apparently unfortunate circumstances. You feel a bit like you have earned the tentative respect of a gator, a fragile peacefulness as you cohabit the sandy creek-bar. 

Sweat whispers on your skin and fire licks your wrung-out brain; it is not a respect you have earned, is not a respect you deserve. You are confused, and you do not like the feeling; confusion is a bright flash in which a predator has chance to strike its prey. 

“It would be prudent for me to take you home.” This snake-eyed man says. “After all, I do not think you want to get tangled up in a murder investigation.” 

_Oh, that’s ironic._ You think somewhat deliriously. 

You stumble to your feet, placing a steadying hand on the ornate wood spine of the chair; it is unusually warm beneath your fingertips, and you imagine sinking your nails in like a knife into flesh. 

“I can- uh, get back home by myself, thank you for the hospitality and all.” You say, although it comes out more like a mutter. 

“No, you can’t.” Comes the response, and he is probably right. 

“What?” You clip sardonically, a bit too fierce, a bit _rude_. “A guy faints while witnessing a murder once and suddenly I’m an _invalid_?”

The suited man’s eyebrows raise by small, exact degrees; a flesh suit of many well-oiled gears. 

“I am not entirely sure-“ he replies professionally, “-that your. . .” He pauses tastefully. “. . _episode_ was due to events witnessed directly before it.” 

“Also,” he adds, foreign voice lightly scolding, “disabled is the preferred term.” 

“What’s _your_ preferred term, _euthanasia_?” You spit, each word sharp and defensive like a pocket knife. 

The man sighs like a parent witnessing a petulant child. 

“You need a good night’s rest. Let’s go.” He flicks his hand cordially to the door. You follow. He is not the sort of creature from whom orders go unheeded. 

The two of you leave, his hand pressed lightly into the small of your back.

In the slow, heavy murmur of the river, his hand is something shaped with a curve. It could be an anchor or a hook, but the water is too murky to tell. 

It is strange; once the pair of you step through the door, your anger dissolves like sugar in water. In fact, you’re not quite sure whether you were really angry at all; reacting to the world around you feels like theatre, donning oh so many hats to evaluate the texture and fit. 

The hallway is no less ornate than the room, the baroque gold and crimson of Versailles and dark wood with sordid secrets buried beneath veneer. But the lighting is brighter, and in it’s yellow gaze the cruel whispers embedded into this old place are muffled. 

He looks softer too, a picture of scholarly authority _. It really is an impeccable suit he wears,_ you think. You are not talking about the one made of fabric; although, judging from his taste, it surely is of fine make, you are not the sort of person who can tell. 

It is a wonderful suit, and you wish desperately that the spaces in between the stitches didn’t wink at you, telling you secrets you do not want to know. 

_Come peek inside_ , they whisper, but you know better. Once they get a grip of you, the strings close tight and _pull_. 

_Come see the Devil’s Miracle, the lay-hun-dairy self-lynched man. The mob came from ere within, the only bit borrowed were the string._

The next moment you have outside of your brain, the beast is gently chauffeuring you into a beige Bentley, and you think for the first time in all it’s directness that he is _rich_. He is the portrait of one of those lost and half-phantasmal European royals, yes, but that is a thought of its own. 

In this strange land, the crown boils down and gold is left behind like saltwater in the sun. Here, he is rich, and it is such an impersonal thing. 

“What’s your address?” The monster asks genially as he folds himself regally into the driver’s seat.

You perch in the shotgun, watching yourself sway slightly in the mirrors, matching the slow rocking of the boat on the bayou in your mind. 

“You’re a tourist. I doubt you would know where it is.” The river floods in a blink, hot and merciless. It rolls over the cracks of your brain in a hot flash. You breath out through your teeth, a harsh whistling breath between your lips. 

You tilt your head back onto the headrest and close your eyes, feeling the sickly-hot mud battle with the Bentley’s AC system. It blows a curl over your eyelid, and your muscles twitch a little. The water recedes, but you can feel the dried dirt left behind, drying into fuzzy spots within your vision. 

“Don’t be ridiculous; I have GPS.” The monster responds, and you realize with a sickening feeling that only a few seconds have passed. 

The feminine, robotic voice of the GPS chirps into life, and just because you feel like shit-soup doesn’t mean you have lost your sense of humor; it is an objectively funny picture. You snicker. 

“What is it that you find so amusing?” He is asked, in that perfectly clinical voice typical of people who have survived medical school. 

“You’ve got GPS.” is all you offer. This _man_ is the picture of anachronism; the taste, dress and manners of some 19th century aristocrat, highlighted sharply by sleek, modern utilitarianism. A piece of fine Victorian china with stainless steel handles. 

He sighs, finally breaching the horizon of irritation. 

“Your address.” He prompts curtly. He does not deal well with irritation, you know. He should try walking a day in your shoes, in your brain; he wouldn’t be able to stand it. It’s a strangely powerful thought; this is the sort of entity that can do anything but be you. 

You are crazy, not stupid, but the mud spots and the dizziness is making everything round around the edges, and poking the beast seems like a funny, funny thing to do. 

“You know, telling you that is what is commonly known as an _idiotic_ thing to do.” You comment. 

The irritation slips from his posture, overcome yet again by that hawk-like interest; you haven’t the slightest idea how what you said could be construed as anything but irritating, but for a guy who can read peoples’ secrets like street signs you’re remarkably bad at interacting with them. _Aced the exam, failed the practical._

“To the contrary, I’ve found that trusting healthcare professionals is a near-universally accepted course of action. Tell me, do you find it difficult to trust others?” 

You side-eye him like a gator in a shallows. “ _Tell me_ , were the lobotomized ones included in this _forum_?” 

He smiles. “Those would be considered outliers.” He says it just like that, like _those oranges_ or _those birds in the coop_. 

You tell him your address. You’re not sure why, except that you need a ride home and he hasn’t killed you yet. He seems a rather efficient sort. You figure when someone’s crazy and sunk up to their shoulders in their own brain they look for a friend in whoever hands them the lifevest. 

He taps the address into the GPS and then the two of you are coasting, the gap in the windows sucking and pushing the moist Louisiana air around you like a current. 

After a moment of reveling in that hot, heavy air turned lighter and refreshingly cool, you open your eyes to watch the antebellum historic part of the city move past. The traffic is relatively light seeing as it’s high summer and anyone who isn’t married to the place or can’t afford to move out is in cooler, more northern pastures, and even locals prefer not to drive in a place where half the streets are the sort of shitty that gets them designated as a Historic Landmark. 

The thing is, you might fix engines for boats, not cars, but you know that this is the sort of car made for speed, the sort that is built for closing distance like how an inner city bench is built to make homeless folks suffer for no reason but somebody in a suit figuring if something hurts enough it might disappear. 

The speedometer, though, is barely pushing 15 in miles even though the limit here is 25 and on a day like this no one would think any worse of someone going 30. 

He keeps looking at you, quick glances made long somehow by their nature. You wonder if there’s something on your face. 

“What?” You ask finally. A massive tree dips the car into shade for a moment, the sort that even Katrina couldn’t uproot. It’s covered in kudzu, thick and choking. _A beautiful way to die._

A moment, and then-- “What indeed?” 

You think about this, except it feels more like watching someone think from the outside than it feels like any headspace of your own. 

It’s six more blocks before you answer. “I don’t think we really know.” 

By this time he’s expertly parallel parking in front of your apartment building. Half the units aren’t occupied for one reason or another, which is just the way you like it. 

He walks you to the door, hand on your elbow like one of those old black-and-white Hollywood gentlemen. 

“Will we find out?” He asks, and his eyes are bright. 

You pause before stepping inside, thinking of this dangerous, strange city and its brief witness to this dangerous, strange thing dressed as a man. You shrug. 

“I don’t find you that interesting.” 

The door shuts.


	3. Assumption

You don’t think much about the monster of a man the next day. The world is far too full of more pressing and immediate concerns to address shadows at the edge of your vision, after all. 

It takes a cup of coffee (disappointingly utilitarian after that strangely wonderful tea), a trip to the bathroom and a collage of dog hair on your clothes when you sit down to remember Winston, back at the shop. 

The coffee burns your throat as you swallow it in a single gulp. You scramble for your keys, remember they’re in your pocket, and finally realize that you left your car at the shop as well. Standing in your socks and three-day-old clothes on the morning street, you have the distinct thought that you’re kind of a fucking mess. 

Winston will be fine-- you leave a bowl of water and food inside the shop for this exact reason, because even though you love that dog more than you love yourself (not a particularly high bar, but still) your brain is about as reliable as a rowboat in a hurricane. 

You begrudgingly go put on shoes and begin the five mile walk to the shop. Walking around the city is always a bit of a disaster. In a car, you could be the only person in the world, might as well be, faces and feelings and human design hidden beneath steel and rubber. 

On the street, people try to smile at you, brave college students usually, not deterred by your ‘five-o-clock would be an optimistic guess’ shadow and oil-stained thrift clothes. Each interaction feels sort of like reliving PE class; a flash of teeth, a ball thrown, times up, you miss yet again. 

There’s others too, who see a flash of something sharp in your eyes, the disheveled state of your appearance, your wary stance, and start to walk faster, to pull children close. Sometimes you wonder if it’s themselves they see in you, if you are a mirror in flesh and bone; or maybe it’s just you. 

You’re not sure which is worse. 

Noise and vision seem strangely distorted, in the rising hallucinatory Louisiana heat; children laugh nearby at a bus-stop, and the sound feels like a solitary echo, already only a memory. The whole world takes on an artificial hue, like a moving tableau. 

If you’re only a reflection, what does that make you? A hall of mirrors, maybe. You always fucking hated carnivals. 

Winston is pawing gently at the screen door when you get there, insistent enough to make clear his thoughts about being left alone but gentle enough to let you know he’s not angry about it. You and Winston are never angry with each other; together the two of you get peaceful acceptance, and it’s about the best damn thing in the world. 

His paws tap in tune with the click and jangle of the keys, and then you have a palm full of fur, tail spinning excitedly like a boat propeller about your knees, and you’re saying _hello, yeah boy, Winston, good boy, hello there_. 

You think you might have said more words to Winston than anyone else in your life. It’s easier, when he doesn’t know what they mean. The conversation last night had been easy too, for the opposite reason; he knew what you meant near-exactly. With most people, it’s a terrible in-between. 

Winston’s relieved himself on the floor, but it’s concrete and it’s not like you can blame him, so you set yourself towards cleaning it without much thought. 

A church bell clangs somewhere in the distance, and you realize it’s Sunday. You’re not religious in the typical sense, too cynical to believe in a God worth worshipping and too stubborn to believe in a God worth fearing, but Sunday is about as sacred for you as for any Catholic; Sunday is fishing day. 

Growing up, there had been no clear distinction between religion and fishing. Christ, you had heard, was a traveler in poverty, a man who worked with his hands. Maybe, when the cancer metastasized and shot your father’s lungs straight through, you kept half-expecting him to get back up, good as new. 

You had been 20, too old for most superstitions that hadn’t proven themselves to you, but still you lingered by his grave in the early hours of the morning for the week after, in case it just took longer the second time around. 

You wondered, as a kid, if that was why Jesus liked fish so much-- they were travelers like him, always running from something bigger and meaner. 

If it was, you always wondered why he ate them. 

Winston is following you out to the car, making those excited little jumps in anticipation of the water. Winston sometimes disturbs the river, makes fish hard to come by, but that’s okay. You think you mostly like the routine. That, and the quiet. 

You’ve fished most places within a ten-parrish radius, at some point, but Houma is where you go most often. Your dad used to say that Houma, Louisiana was just ‘home’ that caught up in a hurricane. It’s a pretty anglo-centric way of looking at it, considering it’s the name of the native tribe, but you still hear his voice in your ear when you pass the town-sign. 

You think about it a lot, when the radio becomes more static than sound on rural roads. 

Eventually you’ve found yourself in your little spot, Winston’s paws making happy craters in the mud beside you. He’s fearless, in his own way, unafraid of crawfish pinching at his paws but startled by the drop of a leaf into the water nearby. 

The toss of the line is something weightless and near-ethereal against the murmur of the current on your thighs. Something heavy and settled in your mind and gut falls loose, here; in the current, the sediment under your skin washes away easy as something meant to be. 

The line tugs like an insistent child, and your mind’s river rushes over it’s banks, clay and twisting roots swallowed in seconds. In the commotion, the sediment twists, clouds like tiny, angry fish, _fish, your hands are something foriegn and the line is home but these strange fingers have never learned to hold it, it snaps like bone against a rock, falling feels like nothing at all, and the river holds you like a murderous lover._

_The cloudy banks are smooth like an old projector screen, and as your memory stops recording an old film snaps into place._

_Voices echo in your skull, strange and warped from time and water, there are dark hands on your shoulder and shins, garcon, garcon, ayou est tes parents, tu as parents, and water is trickling from the crease of your lip like bile, oui, you choke, and it sounds like ‘wheh’, low and airy on your lips._

Winston pants and laps at your face, water falling from his coat like rain. Your shirt is torn from those loving and saving teeth, and you can feel the grit of the clay in the sandbar against your skin. The creek moves onward, indifferent to it’s loss. 

Winston is bright and warm and alive, and he has saved most of you, there’s something in you that got washed away, something important floated downstream like gravel and sand, but you are alive and fur presses wet against your cheek. 

You curl up around Winston, face in fur, fingers pressing little-crescents in the skin just under your knees, and sob like a child. 

You don’t like mirrors much. Once, when you were about 10 and too-buzzed on gas station candy to sleep on a late-night drive to some new place, some new job, some new shore, you had confessed to your father that you had no idea who you really were. He had told you, with that tone that signifies that he was having one of those movie-perfect moments in which he felt endlessly paternal and wise, that nobody did at ten years old.  _You’ve got to get to finding yourself, champ. Lucky, ain’t it, we move around so much?_ He had chuckled and drummed his fingers against the wheel. In the blinding white of the car-brights and the black vacuum of the rural road, you had thought you knew exactly what had gone through Laika’s canine mind before the end.

Of course, at that age you had lacked the words to articulate how you really felt—or didn’t feel, to be more exact. The world felt like a Goodwill in the bad part of town, everything stained and chipped and rubbing against your hands but never quite  _yours _ , just things you could hold, for a while.

It’s not that you didn’t know who you were—it’s just that you  _weren’t_ ,  strictly speaking, at all.

You don’t like mirrors much. You always look like everyone but yourself.

You haven’t got a choice right now, though, and it seems like that’s something you’ve been subjected to an awful lot lately. Or maybe there are choices, but they’re in a language you can’t read.

The sun had been harsh and unfamiliar as you’d laid loitered about the nearby clearing to dry. Everything about the place you had known for your entire life seemed suddenly shifted, as if someone had come and replaced every atom with a replica, wrong by some unpinnable, tiny measure.

Winston had bounded clumsily after the dull orange flash of a butterfly. A viceroy, you think. You not sure where you learned to recognize them by species, but you remember all the same. Perhaps some faded informatory poster at an interstate rest-stop. You can almost see it in your mind’s eye, bright blues and yellows faded to a world of sun-sapped teal.

It’s almost comforting, to remember. It must be a memory— your mind doesn’t know how to create things of its own.

The muddy creek-water had dried into a layer of dust, whispering in an itchy melody along your skin.

When the sun had begun to murmur, you shamefully shambled through the Huema downtown until -by some miracle of rural cultural lag- you had found an old phone booth. With Winston curled up along the yellowed plastic siding, you had shuffled through the stratum of old community alerts and advertisements until you had found a local taxi company. You don’t need a paper for the tow-number— they even give you a discount for being ‘in the industry’. The generosity settles like lead in your stomach.

The cabbie raises an eyebrow at your disheveled state and animal companion.

“I’ll pay for the cleaning.” You promise without thinking, and maybe it’s the desperate, unhinged energy that you are vaguely aware you’re projecting or simply the sort of apathy typical of cabbies, but he shrugs, nods, and lets the both of you in without a word.

The cab is pristine in a way that speaks for the stoic driver when he won’t—pride in his work displayed through smudgeless windows and and polished mirrors.

You cannot escape the face purported to be your own.

He looks how he feels— like shit. A smudge of dirt sticks along the ridge of his right eyebrow and he has these haunted eyes that are both very wide and never seem to open all the way. They seem sunken, somehow, in a way that transcends bone structure, like pictures of young children who have known more war than peace. A refugee’s eyes.

You look away, but the other window shows the same picture, just more distorted. The sun is red and fat in the sinking southern sky, and like everything else, you carry a reflection of it with you, in the remnants of tears crowding along your lashes, red-rimmed like the bright echo of a solar eclipse.

The cabbie is a statue, stoicism only broken by the erratic manner his fingers tap the wheel in a particularly bad spot of traffic. Smooth jazz plays through the car-radio at a volume almost too-low to hear. Winston pants. It is a long drive home.


	4. Avoyelles

The window of your apartment glows invitingly onto the street, promising laughter and comfort and familiarity, one of those 4x3 urban homesteads peeking in the night. 

You live alone. You might be losing time, losing your mind, but you always turn off the lights before you leave. It saves money, is good for the environment. 

Fingers curl around keys, white and tense where the prick of the metal bites. Winston growls, low and protective. You wonder how on Earth you found such a good, good dog. 

You find a man flitting about what passes for a kitchen in your place. Slightly fuzzy classical warbles from the old radio. There is a large brown bag on the foldout table. 

“Hello, Will.” He greets casually as he sprinkles salt into a pot. His white undershirt is rolled to his elbows and the presumably accompanying waistcoat is nowhere to be found. 

It smells divine. The sweet music and golden light paint him as something distinctly human, like a realist painting of the late 19th century hanging in a gallery.  _ Man Cooking, artist unknown.  _

You could almost be fooled.  Almost . 

“This isn’t your house.” You cut out. Nails absentmindedly scratch at your arm. Winston seems torn between suspicion and ecstasy, lips curling back into a snarl before devolving into a twitching nose and excited thwap of the tail, and back again. He’s a good dog, but he has the same weakness as any other—the smell, or even better, the prospect of food. 

The man hums a bit as he stirs the contents of the pot before placing the lid and turning to face you. He wipes his hands on a waist-tied apron. It’s definitely not yours.  _ He broke into my apartment, and he bought his own apron _ _._ You think in disbelief. 

“Ratatouille.” He clarifies with a nod to the pot. “I bought the ingredients—do not worry.”

“This isn’t your fucking house.” You say again, like an echo, but there’s a level of absurd uncertainty to it.  Your house definitely doesn’t have eggplants in it. 

His mouth curls like a lizard’s tail. 

“This is not a house at all. It is an apartment.” He sounds smug. You’re going to scream. 

“It’s not  _yours_. ” You protest finally, voice weak and strained. You’re too confused for true hostility. 

“Wine?” The man asks, searching through the grocery bag. 

You stride forward to frantically scan the kitchen for evidence of malicious intentions or action. The sound of cabinets opening and slamming shut, inspection of ceilings and corners, the running of the tap. It’s the same old, same old. The only difference is perhaps that everything is a bit neater, and you can’t exactly begrudge the creature that. 

“Wine?” He asks you again. After a moment’s silence, he shrugs and produces two rectangular boxes of cardboard, from which he pulls a pair of wine glasses. 

“Sit.” He orders politely, making a diplomatic motion towards a set place setting on your cramped table. There’s a candle lit, and it looks how your brain feels, nebulous and flickering and white hot. 

Finally, as admittedly very-appetizing food is scooped artistically onto one of your own chipped plates, you manage— “What are you doing here?” 

The beast hums like a idyllic housewife, the tune itching somewhere in the back of your mind. 

He sits gracefully, spreading a paper towel over his lap like he’s dining somewhere with a gallery of Michelin Stars.

”Let’s discuss this over a meal, shall we?”

The food tastes even better than it smells. You’re not entirely sure how your kitchen could have made _this_.

The sounds of traffic outside your window are just a distant murmur, muffled somehow by the warmth of the night and the steam rising in your apartment. The beast is barely eating, just watching you with a distinctly inhuman stillness. Candlelight is flickering yellow and orange around the edges of his face, and he looks like a living skull—like the thin layer of his skin is as transparent as wax-paper. 

It’s an oddly _warm_ sort of expression— the gentle psychopomp. 

“This is a rather uncommon dish for me.” He says finally, naturally, as if he hadn’t just been staring at you, at your hands and face. 

“Why is that?” You ask, just to hear him say what you already know. 

“I am a carnivore, I’m afraid. Nevertheless, vegetarian dishes can sometimes be...refreshing, especially in an unfamiliar city.” He talks like he is doing a waltz around the words he intends to actually say. 

Your head jerks in a little nod of confirmation—not quite satisfaction— _vindication,_ maybe. 

“First time?” This does surprise you—or no, not _surprise_ , it _baffles_ you. _Confounds._ Forces you to grapple for explanations. 

The man has something melancholy in the way he looks out the window, in the way he takes in the dim street. _Deja Vu of place,_ you think, and you for the first time in your memory you find yourself willingly digging to know more. 

You’re a little irritated with your own interest, to be frank. You know better than to go digging for landmines. 

The beast does not know this city, but something in the shape and smell of it is like a forgotten dream. 

“Are you feeling me?” He asks with a indulgent smile. 

Your nose wrinkles. “There are better things to call it.” 

For a moment the beast looks as human as pain and love and loss, lips parted in a good-humored smile. There is just enough skin on his skull of a face to make room for dimples. 

“I recall you judging me ‘not that interesting’.” He comments smugly and takes a bite of his food. His dark eyes don’t leave your face as he does. 

“You’ve forced the interest upon me.” You reply dryly. “By breaking into my property.” 

“You rent.” He replies playfully. “Well, I’ve heard the way into a man’s heart and mind is through the stomach.” 

“You went through the jugular, if I recall correctly.” You say with just a hint of bite. 

He looks torn between thrilled and calculating- _no_ , not _torn_ —joy and scheming are not enemies in his face. One into the other, into the other, into the other, like some sort of fucked-up, maniacal ouroboros. 

“You’re not denying it anymore.” You observe after a moment’s silence—carefully, each word like the space shared between him and a wary animal. “You killed that man.” 

“He wasn’t a man. He was a pig.” The beast retorts, bringing a forkful to his lips with a delicate, aristocratic air. 

”You found him...distasteful.” You murmur, and the words sound fuzzy and strange to your own ears. _Oh_ , some part of you thinks distantly, _it’s happening again._

“Yes. Rude, mostly. A litterer.” He’s staring at your hands. You know enough about etiquette to know you’re doing it all wrong, using the wrong fingers and motions. Somewhere between flustered and irritated, you tuck your wrists discreetly under the fold-out table. 

“You work with engines.” He states without preamble. He says it like this— _You work with engines._ There is nothing of a question in it. 

It’s disarming, a little surprising, and all the more disarming for it. You can’t remember when you last were surprised. You can’t remember much of anything at all. 

_Your name is Will Graham. The time is somewhere dark and bright. He is looking at your hands, eyes cutting beneath the skin like a peeling peach. You live in New Orleans, Lousiana. The moonlight is pooling in the corners of your shabby apartment, a shifting, still-wet stain._

“My hands—you saw the oil.” He just smiles serenely. “What do you want.” You say like it like this—like an accusation, because you had forgotten the shape of a question on your lips. 

“I am a prime suspect for murder in an investigation recently opened by the New Orleans Police Department. I have a perfect alibi that I cannot tell.” He puts down his fork and folds his hands on the tabletop. His lips twitch, and after a moment of deliberation he says with a careful delicateness— “I need your help.” 

You think you know where this was going. It would be funny, if it wasn’t real. It’s still a little funny, actually. 

“You’re telling me you’re _innocent_?” You ask, voice breathy with something just below a laugh. 

“Of this crime, yes. I did not kill Adelaide Durand.” He’s disgruntled. You want to poke him until he bleeds, see the color that lies beneath. 

“Who?” 

“An elderly woman of creole descent found dead early this morning. I am suspected of foul play.” He replies, face unusually pinched. This is not a creature accustomed to finding himself on this side of life’s blades 

Head tilted, you take another bite of your food. “Surprisingly quick conclusion by the pigs. On what evidence?” 

It’s unfamiliar, talking about the NOPD and evidence in the same breath, but all sorts of strange things have been happening to you lately. The beast likes your pig-joke, you can tell. He’s got that line of humor around his eyes. 

_Trouble,_ some part of you whispers cautiously, _he’s trouble._

“A nearby shop-camera caught a glimpse of a Bentley, the same make and model of my own. It was too dark to make out details, except that the license plate did not appear to be of Lousianian origin.” 

_Your Bentley_ , you want to repeat mockingly, but even you know this is not the time and place. He is a monster rubbed raw in his pride—even the implication that he would be this sloppy is wearing him thin. 

“Not a common car.” You comment instead, and the twitch in his face is victory enough. 

You are avoiding the elephant in the room. There’s multiple elephants in the room actually, a whole herd of them crowding your studio close to bursting, with names like _what is wrong with me_ and _what is wrong with you_. The one you are avoiding this very moment is called _I saw you that night._

The beast did not kill Adelaide Durande. You know this, and you are the only one who knows it. He did not kill her, because you saw him killing someone else. 

_Danger_ , your veins whisper again, more fervently. _This is danger._

You can see yourself in the dark pits of his eyes. The amber of his cornea and the dance of the candle paint you fierce and warped, wicked and alive. 

He’s danger, cold sweat whispers along the back of your neck. _He’s danger,_ the hairs on your arms are warning you. 

But tonight, so are you.


	5. Calcasieu

You tell him to wash the dishes and you’ll think about it. 

He seems a little affronted that you deemed it necessary to ask. These are actually his words, not yours-- _I feel the slightest bit affronted that you deemed it necessary to ask,_ he says, and you fiddle with your old record player so he can’t see you roll your eyes. Your cheeks ache. 

There is a way to live forever. It goes like this-- find a friend. Find an enemy. Find someone in between. All of the above need not apply-- just one will do. 

Next, accept that the human brain does not really understand time-- it is not empirically proven whether anything does. Time is memory, and memory is connections, stretching between what has happened before and what is new. 

Winston is sprawled on his side, howling softly to the mist-shrouded moon, and the upstairs neighbor is pacing, and the beast is humming over the running sink while something lovingly called Dad-Rock plays. 

The world’s most complete English dictionary has not been written yet, but while we wait, here is just one word of many-- 

_Together_

_(adv)_

_To never hear the same song twice._

In the interim between one track and another you are left staring at each other without anything between. He has rolled up his white shirt that probably costs more than you make in a day, but not enough--he has underestimated the depth of your sink and the fabric is near-see-through where it’s plastered to his arm. Those strange eyes follow the line of your gaze--somehow, they are surprised at what they find. 

Surprise does not so much _sit_ upon his features than it slides off like water on silk. The beast is not accustomed to surprise-- the emotion no longer remembers how to make a home of his face. 

The next song begins-- something by Bob Dylan, you think. Your face and neck feel hot. 

“I’m going to--” The monster’s hands have stilled in the sink, and he’s looking at you with such an attentive, _boyish_ expression that you think you might- Well. You’re not exactly sure, but it’s digging somewhere inside of you and you can feel your organs shift to create a space. 

“I’m going to go take a shower.” You say awkwardly, scratching the sun-bitten bit of skin above your shirt collar. 

And then the man honest-to-god _sniffs_ the air, like he’s some sort of bloodhound. His nose wrinkles. A shiver pricks your spine--he should be _absurd_ , this _man_ , but he instead strikes you as the opposite of.

“That would be for the best.” He agrees. 

“What immortal hand or eye,” you murmur as you undress with an anxious exactness— back turned to your cloudy bathroom mirror, memorizing the shape of each button with the tips of your fingers. “could frame thy frightful symmetry?” 

He sweeps too, for good measure. You exit your bedroom to an apartment that is nearly unfamiliar its neat state. 

“I suppose,” you say, only a little begrudgingly “now I have to talk about it.” 

The beast has perched upon your sunken couch without invitation. He looks like a collage, something out of a cologne advertisement pasted over your life. 

“You’re going to get dog-hair on your pants.” You note wryly, dragging a chair from the kitchenette. 

He conspicuously adjusts the crossing of legs, whether in light of Winston’s décor input or to emphasize the abundance of space beside him. 

You sit backwards, arms and chin resting on the crest-rail, legs spread around the stiles. In your bare feet, you feel the murmur of a television in the apartment below. 

His curiosity is brimming in the air like something you could swim through, and your left toe begins to circle a grain of wood, _anxiously, anxiously, anxiously._

“Why should I help a serial killer on this fine-“ 

_I have no idea what day of the week it is,_ you think suddenly. The thought settles under your skin in an uneasy, _slimy_ way, like feeling something entirely too _yielding_ making contact with your foot in a murky creek. 

“-evening?” you finish with, a compensatory exactness to your usual drawl. 

“I would rather you slept first,” he responds firmly, “you seem as though you need it.” 

“Right, of _course_.” You manage with only a little venom. 

He just tilts his head slightly in acknowledgment, unbothered. 

_He’s surprisingly unsubtle regarding his nature,_ you observe, _once you know to look for it._

It’s entirely too easy to understand how he’s gone so long without suspicion. It’s just as easy to feel _the knife in your hand, the blood it coaxes from the beneath the skin, the Greek anguish and biblical storms of a dying form-_

You blink back into yourself, and the blood is still there, somewhere at the edge of your vision, but it’s no longer beautiful, just messy and red.

“What do you see?” The beast asks, smiling like a sphinx. He is unblinking and unwavering in his gaze— not quite _reptilian_ so much as _portrait-like_ ; there is something indubitably _warm_ about the expression. His face always seems to be brushed by some unseen fire. 

“You.” 

He smiles as though you have just reminded him of a very funny secret. 

“Would I impose myself to assume you lack the financial resources for regular medical care?” It doesn’t have the spirit of a true question, even if it’s shaped like one, so you don’t respond. You just watch his strange, dark eyes and try to picture them in a child’s face. Whenever the picture seems about to emerge in your mind’s-eye, it blurs, like film exposed prematurely to the light. 

“I’m not looking for a shrink.” You finally say to fill the silence. _And certainly not one who kills people,_ goes unspoken. 

“I did not say that you were. I was a very accomplished medical doctor, at a point in time.” 

_This is a rather unorthodox interpretation of the Hippocratic Oath,_ you think, but the voice doesn’t sound like yours. You’re not exactly sure whether it’s just that, a _thought_ , or a _memory._ The line is so hard to decipher, and getting more smudged by the day. 

You consider, briefly, saying something cutting about _medical practice_ and _murder_ mixing like oil and water, but dismiss the thought as soon as you think it-- it would offend him, you think. Strangely, you don’t think this man-shaped thing is opposed to helping people--he doesn’t have that cold, jaded haze to his vision that cruel people generally do-- whether you heal or harm, it is the same divine power in your hands.

It must have been a few moments, at least, since someone had spoken, but he doesn’t seem particularly bothered. He watches your face, somewhere to the left of your cheekbone. It’s oddly comfortable. 

“Surely you are not completely satisfied.” He says finally. He does not say it like a question; he says it like a challenge. You can feel the high tide of a headache rising somewhere in your skull- never completely _gone_ , but waxing and waning on a whim. 

You run your fingers through your hair, tipping your neck back, back, _back_. Water drips onto the floor-- you discreetly nudge a threadbare rug over the spot with your foot. 

“In theory,” you sigh, “what would you want me to do?” 

The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes seem to be able to move independently, as if he has archaic bits of muscle that humans have since lost. They deepen now, suggesting something closer to a smile than any other named thing, but still not _quite_. 

“How glad I am that you asked.”


	6. Cameron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I cleaned up the chapters a bit lol sorry If I deleted your comment

“It’s called ‘The Fly’.” You tell him, watching the gray water amble sluggishly along. “It’s not exceptionally scenic, but it’s green-” A few strides away, a patch of grass yellows around some undisposed dog-excrement. “Mostly. Green, and safe.” 

If it weren’t for your companion, you wouldn’t have the slightest idea a murder had occured at just this spot-- 24 hours? 30? 70? 

_I don’t know how we got here,_ and there is a stab of genuine panic, swamped down by the hallucinatory summer-heat. 

“It was not safe for Adelaide Durand.” He comments. 

“No,” you answer, feeling a bead of sweat murmur down the side of your neck, “it was not.”

A jogger bounces by, music blaring faintly behind her. There are children, laughing, crying, digging with sticks. 

“Why should I believe you?” 

He sounds amused. “Believe what, Will?” 

“That this is real— that a woman was murdered here. That you’re not just— I don’t know, _fucking_ with me.” 

“Why would I lie?” 

You’d love to be naive enough to leave it at that, but you’re not, and you don’t think you ever have been. He is told as much. 

When you turn to watch him, he’s smiling like a tomb-statue, soft and morbid. The temperature must be pushing 100, but he’s in a plum-colored three-piece and seemingly no worse for wear. 

“I suppose I must prove my case. Come with me.” 

“Wait--” you grab his arm. He looks down at the place your hand rests, perplexed but not offended. “I-- don’t know how we got here.” 

He does not look at you like you’re crazy, even though you probably are. Not just because you don’t remember anything in between now and him perching on your ragged couch, but because there is a prick of what can only be called ‘ _safety_ ’ at his acceptance of it. 

“I drove.” He says. “I didn’t feel it would be fair to cost you gas.” It’s such an absurd truth, creeping around the apparently obvious-- you _shouldn’t_ be driving-- that you let out a breathy, surprised bark of a laugh. 

“A working-class hero.” 

He nods serenely. “I try.” 

He takes you to get gelato first. It’s a hole-in-the-wall sort of place where everything sold must have the dignity of being written a romance language. 

His pronunciation is perfect as he orders two scoops on a waffle-cone, _menta_ and _pistacchio._ You order a dished strawberry in English, feel the employee’s eyes scrutinizing the space between the two of you. _If you figure out what’s going on,_ you’re tempted to tell her, _let me know._

Neither of you question his smooth initiative to pay. You don’t like being _pitied_ , not because people are _wrong_ but because you already _know_ , and much better than they could hope to tell you; but this doesn’t feel like pity. 

After all, his murder doesn’t strictly _have_ to your problem, regardless of which he committed. 

The credit-card is gold-colored, with some evident weight to it, one of those used frequently for Hilton Suites and international flights. She sees it too-- the girl behind the counter fixes him a look with some _ferocity_ to it, only relenting until he pulls a slender wallet out of his breast pocket and deposits a bill in the tip-jar. It takes the faint pinch of your cheeks to realize you’re grinning. 

“I often get gelato,” he muses as the two of find a table in the shadow of the tarp-awning “it reminds me of a different stage in my life.” 

When he says ' _stage_ _in my life_ ’, you can’t help picturing sort of moth, crawling fat and unknowing into a protective shell, and months later, twitching outwards to the sky. 

It’s impossible to picture him as anything but a less practiced monster, clumsy but no less _elegant._ You certainly can’t acquaint him with _unknowing_. 

“Let me guess,” you say, voice only a little sardonic, “Italy.” 

“And then France.” He agrees, expression soft and distant like a sunrise through clouds. “Although I was born in neither.” 

This doesn’t surprise you, although it hadn’t explicitly occurred to you before. There is something _learned_ to his Romantic mannerisms, the sort of perfection that can only be found by working oneself inside from out. 

You lean back in your chair, tapping your spoon against the side of the dish. “Not Russia, or Belarus or Ukraine.” You squint, trying to find an answer in the lines of his face. “Not southern Europe, although you consider Italy your home. One of the Baltics? That’s my guess.” 

He is buzzing from within, looking nearly ready to clap. “Lithuania.” Comes the confirmation, pleased and smug as a snake. 

“What was that like?” 

“Flat, forested. Alternating farmland, wetland and forest. In the winters, it became very cold.” 

“Sounds like Michigan.” 

He laughs, but there is an undercurrent of surprise to it. “I suppose that is true-- I didn’t think of it that way.” 

You jerk your head towards him. “You’ve been?” 

“Once, for an initiative to improve Detroit’s hospitals. I’m afraid I didn’t get the chance to do much sight-seeing. How have you seen Michigan?” You hear the implication in his voice-- _Michigan is a long ways-away, and you are poor._ For the first time since meeting him, murder included, you want to hit him. 

“My family moved around a lot, anywhere with water. We were in Marquette, for a while.” Truthfully, you hadn’t done much sight-seeing either, at least not the traditional type. 

But on weekends or slow Tuesdays, you and your Dad would rent some small boat, set out with nets piled haphazardly against the inner hull. Your dad would nurse the motor until the shore was a faint sliver, indistinguishable from the crest of the waves. And then the boat would sit, bobbing in the water-- you’d turn the radio off, just sit and listen to the sound of the lake murmuring against the hull, feel the spray of it on your face.

More than anything else, you remember the _coldness_ of it, the way it would numb your cheeks and nose like there was something for it to prove. It was an undeniably young, _awake_ thing. 

Sweat beads above your lip, cools against your gelato-kissed mouth. When you taste it, there is salt, and you realize your eyes have closed, that you haven’t spoken in at least a minute. 

He is watching you, the beast, and you have the eerie suspicion that in your silence, he hasn’t blinked. When your eyes open, he asks--

“Did the two of you fish?” There is some sort of _weight_ to the question, but you can’t decipher from _where_. You answer honestly--

“Not in Lake Michigan, no. Not really. The boats always had nets, but we forgot to drop them.” The word _forgot_ comes out sounding like something else. He raises a thin eyebrow. 

“But you fish here, do you not?” 

It doesn’t take a genius to deduce, with your fly-station being the most meticulous thing in your home. Winston knows not to go near it-- he is a good, good dog. 

Frankly, fishing is probably a fair assumption for any youngish, whitish, bachelor in the state, and a good portion of other people there too. 

“Fly-fishing. That and dropping nets-- it’s not the same. It’s more... _intimate._ Quiet.” 

“You find it crude and impersonal, robbing nature of it’s bounty.” His voice tilts the statement until it nearly seems a question. 

“Yes.” Your tongue feels strange and heavy in your mouth, sticky-sweet and cold.

“Pistachio—“ he begins, carving out a delicate bite with his spoon. He eats in a way that is so refined it nearly loops back to crude— in impossibly small, delicate bites, like a crab. It is fascinating to watch. “A savory, green nut— it would seem like a ludicrous flavor for gelato. And yet, it is one of the most popular flavors. Tell me Will— does one need to be a little mad to see your potential?” The beast is glinting behind his eyes. 

“Do you ever talk like a normal fucking person?” You snap in response, suddenly testy. 

The creature’s lips pinch downwards. “Do you?” 

There are only a few bites left in the dish, melting with a vendetta in the heat. You feel you’re melting too, slipping, slipping, _slipping_ —

“You never told me your name.” You blurt out. “If I’m going to be aiding and abetting, I want a name to _whom.”_ He clearly has _your_ name, although you can’t pinpoint the moment of having told him. 

His lips barely seem to move when he tells you—

“Dr Hannibal Lecter— pleased to meet you.” 

The sun is shadowed by the time Hannibal parks along a forlorn-looking lot of molded soccer-balls and tough grass. Across the street, a brick apartment-complex looms. 

You sit there for a moment, soaking up the last memories of the air-conditioning; then, the drivers-side door clicks open. 

“Off we go.” The beast tells you cheerfully, leaning against the top of the door. 

The bottom-unit of the nearest building appears to have been converted into some sort of fitness-studio. Through the windowed-door, you can see a gang of twisting women in neon yoga-pants. 

“Getting fit?” You ask, and Hannibal smiles indulgently and keeps walking. He makes a little ‘ _c’mon_ ’ sort of gesture with his hand. 

“The police-station is a few blocks down. It will do us some good to walk.” 

“I’m sure, if I don’t get heat-stroke in the process.” You grumble in reply, before the substance of his words settles like a shock.

“Why are we going to the _police_?” Your lips curl distastefully around the word. 

“You seemed intent on me proving this tragedy.” Hannibal explains, entirely unruffled. “They should have crime-scene photos in their system.” 

“And what, Doctor Lecter, is our plan for when their person of interest comes in trying to look at classified files?” You hiss, jogging slightly to keep up with his long stride. Every part of you _whines,_ hot and heavy and painful. You feel waterlogged. 

“Don’t worry about it.” He assures you calmly. “What would I have to gain from leading you astray?” 

Only a crazy-person would go along with him. Fortunately for Doctor Lecter, you are a crazy-person; you find your feet echoing his despite your better self’s protests. 

A block away from the station, looming dark and menacing over the surrounding buildings, Hannibal gently stills you with a grasp to the shoulders. 

“FBI investigators are an eccentric collection,” he muses, running a hand over the ridge of your sweat-soaked cheekbone “but this is probably a bit much.” 

His hands are cool and _capable_ -feeling— one can tell by touch alone that this creature wields a scalpel, draws with charcoal, prepares feasts—

( _Snaps necks_ )

You shiver. 

Out of his breast-pocket, the beast procures a handkerchief and a small comb. He dabs the silk against your face, blotting at the worst of the sweat. When he passes towards your eyes, you close them, feel the silk press over your eyelids like a dark, cool dream. 

He then picks his way gently through your hair with the comb, taking the time to tuck an overgrown curl behind your ear. 

He puts both items back into his pocket in one, smooth motion. It’s either jarringly sudden or you’ve simply fallen into some sort of trance-like state, because when he starts talking it takes a moment for you to make sense of words. 

“—will do. Just go along with what I say.” The words murmur into focus. You blink, twice. The memory of the handkerchief still whispers across your skin. 

“Okay,” you manage, voice oddly unfamiliar. _Maybe_ , a thought surfaces, _it’s my own._

After 90-pushing-100 outside, the chilled-air of the New Orleans Metro PD is nearly painful. You have to stop yourself from gasping like a beached fish at the _brightness_ of it. 

The secretary glances up lazily, eyes widening slightly at the sight of Hannibal.

“How can I help you sir?” The woman asks flirtatiously. “And you, too.” She adds at the sight of you, less enthusiastically. 

Your companion flips open his wallet in a smooth, practiced motion, revealing an FBI badge.

“FBI. I’m afraid I have to take a quick look back there.” His voice is gentle, but firm. 

She blinks, laughs a little highly. _I’m nervous, but still attracted. He is handsome, in a strange way. I think he’s from Europe._

You jab a finger furiously against your temple, forcing yourself out of her mind. You don’t like being around people, and this is why. 

“And him?” She asks, glancing towards you. 

“He’s with me.” Hannibal answers smoothly, resting a hand on your bicep. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—I won’t be long. It’s nothing serious.” 

“Of course!” She tritters, waving a hand towards the station interior. “Have a wonderful day, sirs.” 

The beast’s stunt with the badge had earned him the attention of the other secretaries, but as the two of you walk further, the prick of their gazes quickly dwindles 

“This department is frequently under investigation.” Hannibal informs you with a wry smile. “I doubt it’s an uncommon occurrence.”

“I thought you were a psychiatrist.” 

His smile widens, and he leans downwards, thin lips nearly pressing the shell of your ear. He murmurs-

“I am. The badge isn’t mine.” 

  
  
  



	7. Evangeline

It’s a colorless, artless thing— in the twilight morning, there is a picture of what used to be Adelaide Durand. It is painted in ashy gray-browns and dying, burgundy red, and there is nothing to feel in the corpse, or at least its picture, and you’re not sure if you’re relieved or glad or just  _ empty _ . 

Empty like two eyes, corneas cloudy-white in death. 

“I’ve seen enough.” You manage around the lump in your throat. “We can go now.” 

_ Uhm-hmm,  _ Doctor Lecter hums distantly in agreement, discreetly transferring something from a sticky-note to his wrist. 

“Alright.” He chirps pleasantly “We’re done here.” 

The secretary waves at the two of you on the way out. 

Back in the suffocating heat of the car, you scald your fingers against the metal clip of the seat-belt until the image stops flashing behind your eyes. 

“What did you think?” Hannibal asks as he writes something into the notes-app of his phone. If he’s the slightest bit phased from the day's events, he doesn’t show it. 

“Can you turn on the air.” You gasp out. Hannibal somehow manages to do so without ever taking his gaze off your reflection in the drivers-side. You’re sweating— you bet you’re going to leave a wet spot the size of the gulf on his leather-seats. It should be fine, probably. A car like this can handle worse. 

He coaxes the car off of the curb and into the street, driving slowly without any apparent rush or intent. You watch the brick-buildings roll by and breathe in time to every-other building-number until your nausea creeps back below your skin. 

“Have you made a decision?” Your companion asks. In your silence, he’s turned on some sort of classical-music station you didn’t think anyone except misanthropic cabbies listened to.  _ Although _ , you muse,  _ the graph of those and serial killers is probably a venn-diagram.  _

“Well,” you say “she was definitely murdered.” 

He doesn’t seem to find it funny, but luckily, you don’t sense any irritation either.

“Yes.” He agrees amiably. “I knew as much.” 

It’s slowly dawning on you that you’ve somehow gotten yourself into a situation you can’t ignore or bullshit until it goes away, at least not with your usual lassitude. Your skull  _ aches. _

“I have work tomorrow,” you protest weakly. “I’m not the most time-sensitive accomplice.” 

“Call in sick,” He counters easily. “They will believe you, I think.” 

You glare at him through one of the Bentely’s impeccably polished rear-view mirrors. It comes off as pallid even to you, your pasty skin and disheveled hair reminiscent of a sickly poodle. 

Finally, you say-- “I don’t have a cell.” 

There’s only a tinge of mocking to the beast’s raised brow, and even that is good-natured enough. 

“You find yourself socially isolated.” He comments. 

“Careful, Doctor. Soon, you might come to the radical conclusion that I have a dog.” 

“I have met your dog. His name is Winston. You feed him better than yourself, I think.” 

There’s a rather large possibility that he’s feigning naivety to grant you a win, but in this state, you think you’ll take it. “Exactly.” You respond wryly. 

Suddenly, he dives his hand into the pocket of his trousers, other hand still firmly on the wheel. 

“Here,” he tosses an Android onto your lap “I assume you remember your employer’s number?” 

You stare at the phone for a moment, uncomprehending. Then, tenderly, like you are disarming a bomb, you pick it up. 

“It’s password-locked.” You comment numbly, your mouth suddenly dry. On the most basic level, there is nothing particularly intimate about the weight of his cell in your hand. It’s normal, even. 

It doesn’t feel normal, though. It feels very intimate indeed. 

Hannibal is silent for a long moment; you glance up, sure you hadn’t been heard, and find yourself lost for breath at the sight of him. One side of his face is red with afternoon-light, flushed from beneath like thin-cotton on a radiator left to dry. You cannot tell whether his expression is very melancholy, or the sun is at that wistful point just-after-peak in the sky, or both. 

“Mischa.” He says quietly. “The password is Mischa.” 

Silently, you nod. After a few attempts botched by fumbling fingers and various misspellings, the phone unlocks. 

The background is a photo of a painting, clearly taken in some sort of gallery, with the frame and plaster-wall visible in shot. Upon closer examination, you realize it is actually three paintings in close succession, each depicting an adjacent scene. 

The paintings are shadowed and indistinct, despite the clear light of the gallery-- you squint to make out the remnants of fine detailing damaged and darkened by time. 

“Hermits Saints Triptych,” Hannibal tells you without glancing from the road. “By Hieronymus Bosch. It’s kept in Venice.” 

“It looks damaged.” 

“It was nearly destroyed in a fire. Even with restoration efforts, it is…” 

“A shadow,” you finish without thinking. “More the suggestion of itself than the real thing. Why this one?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Why do you want to look at this one? I’m sure you’ve seen countless well-preserved paintings— and you decided to carry this one with you.” 

He is silent for a few long moments— a  _ thinking  _ silence, one of words being mentally tested and examined before use. You wait. 

“It depicts three saints,” he says finally “equal in virtue, but unequal in situation. From left to right, hell, Earth, and a place, which, in its seclusion, is neither. Purgatory, perhaps.” 

“No heaven.” You comment mildly. 

His answering smile is a sly, thin-lipped thing-- you can see it in its fullness only in the driver’s side mirror. 

“No,” he agrees “how could there be, with a saint’s penchant for sacrifice? They’d find heaven and give it away.” 

A hot, heavy sigh escapes you like a popped balloon. Your back presses against the leather seats with the force of it. 

You dial your boss. He picks up after the third ring. 

“I’m not interested in travel insurance.” His voice says curtly through the speaker. 

“No, it’s uh-- it’s Will. Will Graham?” The fingers on your free hand tap restlessly against the seat. Talking on the phone should be easy-- no eye contact, no bodily cues, just the words and the tone with which you speak them. It’s not, though. It seems like nothing is. 

A flood, or a drought-- equally destructive, in their own ways. 

The voice on the phone softens measurably. 

“Oh, hey, Will-- sorry about that, telemarketers have been crazy lately. I don’t recognize this number; you get a cell, or something?” 

“No, I’m calling from a friend’s-- I’ve come down with something, I think, and I don’t think I’ll be able to come into the shop for…” you catch the beast’s eye in the rear-view mirror “--a few days-” this elicits a thin, raised eyebrow “-maybe a week? I’ll just have to see-- I’m really sorry.” 

The voice responds, not unkindly-- “You don’t have friends. Just that dog.” 

You blink— Hannibal looks about ready to keel over the steering wheel in laughter. “I’ve um-- I’ve made one.” You choke out. 

“Right. Well-- good for you. And hey, Will? Take care of yourself.” 

“Yeah.” you mutter “Yeah, I will.” 

You hang up. The thin brows shoot skywards. 

“ _ You don’t have friends-- _ what the hell am I supposed to say to that?” You mutter to the hot air moving over your legs. 

“I believe he thought you were in the company of a paramedic.” Hannibal comments blithely. 

“I’m not that sick,” you respond instantly. A sharp glance lands on his cheek, skillfully deflected by his dedication to the road. “Am I?” 

He doesn’t respond, and the silence hangs heavy in the hot-sticky air. 

Finally, when you think he’s going to pretend hadn’t heard, he murmurs distantly—

“I would have to conduct tests. Scans, and such.” 

“Of my brain.” It isn’t a question. 

“Yes.” 

You drum your fingers restlessly against the hard interior of the car-door until the nails are streaked painfully with white-spots. 

It’s never a good thing when they look at the brain first. You know that much. 

“Tests-“ you say sardonically, “-not necessarily treatment.” You glance sideways to the passing buildings, the life of the city muffled in the mid-afternoon heat. “Maybe it’s better if I don’t know.” You mutter, more to yourself than him. 

“I am a very good doctor,” Hannibal tells you. His voice is fierce, unusually so— both in it’s rarity, and it’s manner— unchanged, except for some hidden sheet of steel curved behind the syllables.

“I hope so, Doctor-“ you tell him in a laugh, even though you’re about as far from amused as you’ve ever been. If you tip your head back all the way against the headrest, and you do, the cloudless sky seems unmoving as still pavement. You watch it for a few seconds, reveling in the illusion. “But I might need a necromancer.” 

“Can you feel the dead?” Hannibal asks, uncharastically sudden, impulsive— like a kid in a candy shop, hands itching to touch. “Does your reach expand beyond the grave?” 

You let yourself fall back into the surrounding city with a wave of dizziness. 

“I don’t know,” you answer sardonically, “I imagine I’ve seen fewer corpses than you.” 

“I was a surgeon, and a paramedic before that,” your companion agrees amiably, “it would seem inevitable.” 

“But you are avoiding the question,” he continues, “I think, because you do not care for the answer. Tell me Will, do you  _ feel _ through photos?” 

You gulp. “Not like reality. Just shadows. Like watching on a screen, rather than _ being _ .” 

“I imagine that might be rather soothing. The clear division between yourself and the  _ other. _ ” 

“You’d imagine,” you reply, in the sort of tone that makes it clear he’d imagine wrong. 

“Hmm,” he hums, drumming his elegant fingers against the steering-wheel, “you know what intrigues me, I think. You don’t have to answer, but I would…” he trails off in tandem with the car as a light flashes red. Over the center-console, a few brave fingers find your thigh. You suck a tight breath into your lungs, and hold it there. 

“...I would appreciate it, deeply.” He says finally, his intense gaze meeting the divots of your collar-bone and apparently holding no malice for it. 

The light turns green and the hand disappears, as quick and gracefully as a stag. Your breath is still trapped somewhere behind your ribs-- it feels like the only thing keeping you from gasping like a beached thing. 

“Where are we going?” you finally manage. It’s a practical question, one that you probably should have asked before now, but you find that you don’t really care about the answer. You had just asked for the sake of there being words. 

“This is a fascinating city,” he responds, “you’ll have to forgive me for wanting to see it.” 

“It’s also hot enough to make asphalt-eggs,” you reply, but it’s not really a protest. The heat is manageable as long as the car keeps moving-- the type outside of you, at least. 

“I hope your calling-in means you intend to help me,” he says finally, tone light. “I do find jail rather distasteful.” 

“You wouldn’t go to jail. You’re caucasian, and rich, and  _ European _ . You’d probably get a public holiday.” 

“Just as well-- I dislike courtrooms. Don’t think I don’t see you avoiding the question.” 

“You didn’t ask a question-- you made a statement in the hopes of baiting information.” 

A smirk, an eyebrow-raise-- “And?” 

You let out a smokers-breath-- tight through your teeth and hard enough to ache. “Well, I’m generally not a fan of vacations, so… under certain conditions. Yes.” 

“Is my medical intervention not compensation enough?” Hannibal questions, but he doesn’t sound particularly upset about it. Like it’s all peanuts to him. Talking for the sake of it, both of you. 

“No, this isn’t…” you trail off, unsure what it  _ is.  _ There had seemed another stipulation, so obvious as to be un-thought before now. 

Unbidden, the image comes back to you-- blood, ugly and red. The grass, soggy underneath Adelaide Durand’s still corpse. You see nothing in it, except for the obvious.

“We have to find who did it,” you insist, “She deserves justice--closure-- and we both know the pigs won’t do it.” 

The thin brow is higher than ever before. It’s not obvious whether this indicates that he is impressed or surprised; perhaps, there is not enough of a difference between the two for it to matter. 

“Is this a salve to your wounded moral integrity? An ethical compromise?” 

You shake your head. “I want justice. You’re...secondary.” The words feel more certain than anything you’ve said in months. 

The monster’s face goes smooth and placid, like the eerie stillness of a pond after a ripple’s final shudder.

You’d almost say he’s  _ jealous _ . 

“You claimed you didn’t find me that interesting…” he murmurs. You feel a miraculous prick of something that could be guilt. 

“You could work at it?” You suggest, skin writhing with the  _ strangeness _ of it all. 

The words hang still for a moment in the turning-over air. And then—

“Do you sumrise ourselves to be more competent than the New Orleans Police Department?” 

A dry laugh escapes you. “I certainly hope so. If not...I really am sick.” 

Something strange lights in your monster’s eyes at your words. You haven’t the slightest idea how to decipher it; you’re surprised by both the fact that you don’t understand and that you have the unusual desire to. 

A sun-shadowed gaze tossed to you from the driver’s side— 

“Where do we begin?” 

“Well,” you figure, “first I’ve got to go home and feed Winston.” 


End file.
